(Extra) Of Sins & Prayers
by Heroes Fly-Minho's Hero Limps
Summary: "Wasn't suicide a sin? he thought to himself, as he stood in the summer wind, the sky reflected like an azure gem in the waters below. He jumped anyway."


-Of Sins &amp; Prayers-

-Okay, well, here's another story I have to apologize for. Because I've now written another emotional, tear-stained Minewt story. Sorry guys. But there's a happy ending! :)

Anyway, this is the story mentioned in Heroes Fly and Of Ghosts &amp; Notebooks; once, Minho was thought to be dying, and so, Newt tried to commit suicide. I hope you all enjoy reading this little glimpse into their past as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I accept and appreciate all reviews that come my way. So don't be shy! (just don't be rude either, ya shanks :P)

PS: found a beautiful, perfect quote from my favorite poet and just had to put it in here. Check him out sometime! ;)-

-Text Messages, Sent Between 12:01 and 12:15pm-

MINHO: Hey angel :)

NEWT: R u driving, Min?

MINHO: Maybe :P

NEWT: U kno I hate it when u txt &amp; drive.

MINHO: Aw, just wanted 2 tell u i miss u :(

NEWT: Tell me when u get home

MINHO: Ur no fun

NEWT: Min I'm serious. Stop txting and just drive.

MINHO: ok ok. i cant wait 2 see u sweethrt 3

NEWT: ur still txting -_- i'll see u later, ok?

MINHO: All right then, see u soon. I love uionldkkhfeljgdfgdgdhreye

NEWT: Wat was THAT?

NEWT: Minho?

NEWT: Minho answer me

NEWT: Minho

NEWT: Minho where r u?

NEWT: MINHO ANSWER ME

NEWT: MINHO PLEASE ANSWER ME

-x-x-x-

Glade Hospital was a bit more cheerful than other hospitals. It didn't have white, sterile-looking walls or hard tile floors. The doctors didn't seem distant when they passed you in the halls and the patients were happy. It was designed in warm colors, yellows and oranges and reds. There were baskets of flowers filling the air with sweet scents of honey and summer. Visitors filed in through the doors to chat with their family members. The windows were tall and so clean, they sparkled.

One of those windows was above Newt right now, showing a large stretch of blue sky. Sunlight filtered down and into the room, glowing on the white of the bedsheets. The dull beep of a heart monitor sounded plaintively from one corner. Besides the quiet hush of breathing, there was no other sound in the room.

Newt sat in a chair off to one side, resting his elbows on his knees. His feet fidgeted worriedly. Blonde hair flopped messily across his eyes, but he didn't bother to push it was staring down at his shoes. He couldn't stop listening to the beep beep beep of the monitor...

"So, um," he began, and his voice wobbled. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Sonya talked to me today. Told me she's starting a new business in a week or two. Something called Framed?" He phrased it like a question, as though hopeful he'd get an answer.

There was none.

Newt swallowed the ache in his throat. "And Teresa stopped by today, and Thomas and Gally. They all wanted to say hi, you know. Gally and Thomas look like they're doing pretty good. So...so that's good." He waited again.

Again, there was no answer.

Newt finally glanced up then, at the boy lying in the bed in front of him. His heart twisted with agony. Minho was on his back, one hand at his side and the other across his stomach. His normally-spiked hair was falling in soft, black strands across his forehead. He wore mint green hospital-style clothing.

Newt studied his peaceful, sleeping face. The smooth skin was marred by a bruise at his forehead, blossoming purple-and-blue. A cut sliced across one cheekbone. His arms showed off similar marks, scarlet scratches and bumps. One hand had been bandaged in gauzy white, from his wrist to his fingertips. Miraculously, nothing was broken severely. But the knock to the head had caused...this.

Newt glanced sideways, out the heavy door to the hallway outside. A doctor passed by, reading from a clipboard; the slow bubbling of conversation came from the lobby. Letting out a long breath, Newt turned back to the patient lying asleep. He managed to put together a smile. "Alby says hi too," he went on weakly. "He wanted to come by today, but he doesn't know if he can make it. Something about work." His smile went crooked, threatening to break. "I think he might, um. He might stop in tomorrow. Or maybe another...another time."

Minho's eyes didn't open. The heart monitor droned on.

Newt could feel his smile collapsing. He lifted his elbows up onto the side of the bed. Gently, he took Minho's hand in his, the one that wasn't hurt, and held the limp fingers. He sat like that for a long long moment. The silence hurt. Then he sucked in a shuddery breath. "Minho, please answer me," he pleaded hoarsely. "Please. I can't stand this anymore."

Minho's eyelashes didn't even flutter with dreams. Newt blinked hard several times, as a wet hotness pricked at his eyes. "I'm right here, Minho," he went on. He rubbed his thumbs back and forth over the back of Minho's palm. "I'm right here, right next to you. You just have to open your eyes and look at me. Look at me."

Minho didn't.

Newt tried to take another breath, and when he let it out, it became a choked sound. Tears began to stream down his cheeks. "Minho," he gasped desperately. "Min, please, I'm begging you. Wake up and look at me. It's been almost two weeks." He gathered Minho's hand into his and lifted it to his lips. Softly, he kissed each knuckle, tasting his own tears spilling onto Minho's skin. Then he folded Minho's fingers between his own, intertwining them. "I miss you," he sobbed. "I miss you so much. I'll do anything if you just wake up, I swear. Don't do this to me."

Dimly, Newt registered footsteps approaching from outside, maybe a nurse coming in to check on Minho. But he ignored it. With fumbling fingers, he shoved a hand into his pocket, searching. "Don't—don't leave me. Please, don't leave me. I don't what I'll do without you." He finally pulled a tiny object from his pocket and held it up. It was a square, small box, colored purest white. Newt glanced between it and Minho's face hopefully. "You see this, Minho?" he asked in a tear-choked whisper. "Do you know what this is?" Slowly, he pried open the lid.

Inside, a ring glimmered gold in the sunlight.

Newt smiled through his tears and looked up at Minho's serene face. "It's yours," he whispered. "It's yours, and I'm yours, forever, if you'll have me. I was going to ask you that day, when you got home. I—I couldn't wait for you to see it. I was so sure you'd say yes."

He watched Minho for several minutes, waiting, begging, praying. When none of his prayers or pleas were answered, he abruptly bowed his head into his arms on the mattress. His hand still held the box, the other clinging tightly to Minho's. "And now I'll never know," he sobbed, shoulders heaving as he cried. "I'll never know what kind of life I'd have with you. Oh, Minho..." He cried harder, pressing his lips to Minho's hand. "I love you. I love you."

He didn't know how long he laid there, crying. But it could only have been a short time because now the nurse was opening the door. Newt heard her footsteps on the floor and her voice rising in question. Something deep inside of him, some vital, precious piece, snapped. Without saying a word, he hastily wiped at his face and stood up. He strode past her, shoving the box back into his pocket, and disappeared out into the hallway.

Everything was broken inside. Everything.

Without Minho, Newt was nothing. He'd given Minho his heart and now Minho was shattering it without even realizing.

Newt was going to lose him.

-x-x-x-

He decided to do it on a Friday.

It was on a Friday, in a crowded high school hallway, that he and Minho had met, after all. It only seemed fitting.

Before he left the house, he was careful to make sure everything would be just the way it should be. The house didn't need much cleaning and besides, he didn't want to spend any more time in there than he had to; it was as still as a ghost now, as quiet as a grave. He showered, and dressed in his favorite jeans and a tank top. Then he wandered into the bedroom and hunted through the desk drawers. He found an old notebook and a pen, and folded them into his arms. Snatching a shirt from the bed, he strode through the hall to the kitchen.

Pausing beside the counter, he spread open the notebook to a fresh sheet. He clicked open the pen and bent down to write. His fingers only shook slightly as he did.

Dear Minho,

I'm sorry.

I just couldn't hold on anymore. I tried, I swear, I tried. I don't know if you'll ever read this, but I had to write it before I left.

I hope I see you again someday.

I love you.

Yours Forever,

Newt

That sounded good, right? he thought. A proper goodbye, a heartfelt goodbye. He decided there was no changing it now. He closed the notebook carefully and slipped it into the cabinet Minho always opened to get coffee in the mornings.

Then he snagged the shirt he'd taken from the room and held it up. Before he put it on though, he paused. It was one of Minho's. It was black, with electric blue lettering printed boldly across the front: GLADE HIGH TRACK TEAM. Newt watched it unfold in his grasp, and read the letters. They blurred suddenly, swimming in his vision. Gasping, he crumpled the shirt up and pressed his face into it. The fabric was so soft under his skin. He buried his nose in it and inhaled. The scents of dark mocha, and skin, and Minho's cologne made his head spin.

He remembered this shirt.

He remembered resting his head against this shirt, cuddled up to Minho's chest. He remembered his fingers curling into this shirt, helping Minho peel it off.

He remembered, he remembered, he remembered. And it HURT.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He pulled the shirt over his head and it fell around him the way it used to.

Then he left. He didn't look back.

-x-x-x-

"All of them have weary mouths and bright souls without seam

And a yearning (as toward sin)

goes sometimes through their dream"

–Rainer Maria Rilke, from "The Angels"

Wasn't suicide a sin? he thought to himself, as he stood in the summer wind, the sky reflected like an azure gem in the waters below.

He jumped anyway.

-x-x-x-

It had to be days before Newt felt the beginning of consciousness again. It started as a nagging prod to his senses. The blackness of his vision shifted, the silence pulsed, and his lungs craved to inhale much deeper than they'd been in sleep. At first, he pushed the coming light away. He'd rather stay in this mindless oblivion than face the reality ahead: that he had failed. And he'd have to live an entire lifetime without Minho.

But the light kept pushing and finally, he succumbed to it. He awakened from sleep the way one is pulled from dark, suffocating water. His lungs opened first and he breathed in his first conscious gasp of air. It was sweet, and smelled of sharp cleanness and something else. Something darker, but still sweet. It seemed familiar. Then he was peeling open his eyes.

The ceiling above him was yellow. That too was familiar. He wanted to move, but knew that'd be a bad idea. So instead, he carefully tested each muscle just a bit. Arms were sore, but okay. Head seemed fine. One leg was all right. The other wouldn't move, and felt warm, like something was wrapped around it. A cast maybe?

It was then that Newt heard the beep beep beep of a heart monitor. His heart sank low in his chest. He was back in the hospital again. He really had failed.

And then, inexplicably, that dark smell—the scent of mocha—washed over him again. Suddenly, a face appeared above him. This face was sharply attractive, even with the fading bruise. Coal-black hair was spiked into a perfect, jagged sweep and eyes like gold-speckled obsidian gazed down at him. Newt felt all the air leave his lungs. "M—Minho?" he stammered, in a rough, unused voice.

Minho released an exhale and smiled gently. "Yeah, angel," he murmured. "I'm here."

"H—how? I thought...I was..." Newt stopped himself, and tried to sit up in bed. He wanted to reach Minho, who sat in a chair beside him like he had, and feel him in his arms. But his leg pulled painfully. "Ouch! Dammit."

"Shhh, shhh, don't try to move," Minho hushed, pushing Newt softly back by the shoulders. "Your leg's not doing so good, Newt. You gotta let it heal, okay?"

Newt just looked at him, drinking in the sight of him. "Minho."

"Hm?"

"Minho."

Minho cocked his head confusedly. "What is it?"

"I just—Oh thank God." Newt grabbed one of Minho's hands from his shoulder and held it close to his chest, over his heart. He began to cry all over again, cursing at himself for doing so. He hiccuped through his tears and ran desperate kisses from Minho's fingers, to his palm, to his wrist.

Minho didn't seem to mind. "Oh, sweetheart, it's all right," he cooed, using his free hand to stroke Newt's hair. "It's all right. Don't cry. I'm right here, my love, I'm right here."

Newt sniffled and embarrassedly tried to rub the tear stains from his face as he calmed down. Minho was there immediately, cradling Newt's face and brushing every tear away with his thumb. Newt melted at the gesture. "I'm so sorry," he managed. "I didn't wanna leave you, I didn't, but you weren't waking up, and I thought—"

"Shhhh, it's okay. I understand." Minho went back to carding his fingers through Newt's hair again. "You don't have to apologize."

"But I do," Newt argued weakly. "Now that I know you would've woken up and I wouldn't have been here."

"Newt, you are here. And that's all that matters to me."

"But if I'd died... You would've been all alone. God, you would've been so angry with me..."

"But you didn't die. You're here and I'm here, and we're still together. And I'm not angry with you, angel."

"..."

"Newt?" Minho asked uncertainly, searching Newt's face.

Newt lowered his gaze sheepishly. "Can you call me it again?" he asked. "Angel, I mean?"

He heard Minho chuckle and then soft lips were brushing his forehead. "I love you," he murmured. "My Newt, my angel."

Newt breathed back an I-love-you of his own, as sweet as a prayer. He couldn't figure out why he'd ever wanted to leave this, even if there'd been a slim chance that Minho might live. If he'd known...god, things would've been so much different. But for now, he didn't care about regrets. He only cared about Minho, who was alive, and breathing, and still loved him. As long as that was true, there was nothing else he'd ever need.

Newt closed his eyes. He decided he'd have to find that little white box again.

There was something he wanted to ask...


End file.
